


Seven Deadly Sins

by snarkyscorp



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Chan, F/M, Fisting, Incest, Infidelity, M/M, informal D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 22:03:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkyscorp/pseuds/snarkyscorp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are three sides to every story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Deadly Sins

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [HP Cestfest](http://hp_cestfest.livejournal.com) over at LJ. This is a 7-part quick drabble series called Seven Deadly Sins, encompassing Pride, Wrath, Envy, Gluttony, Sloth, Lust, and Greed.

**Pride**  
Percy hates to get his knees scuffed, loathes the spatter of mud at the hem of his trousers, cringes at first sight of wrinkles in his starch-smooth shirts. Some call it arrogance, others obsessive-compulsive—Percy calls it pride. It gives him a sense of dignity to walk down a filthy street without so much as a scuff on his boots.

Fred changes that. His fingers pull hair free from Percy's head, bunch the sensitive corduroy fabric at the round of his thighs, whip the belt from his buckles hard enough to snap them. The danger of it is half the intrigue; the other half is made up of things that shame Percy— _he looks just like my brother, he is so young, he is a man, he does not even comb his hair properly_.

Percy's knees buckle under the shove as Fred sends him sprawling.

"You disgust me," Fred growls. His tone is biting, angry, mouth frothing like an animal and Percy loves it.

"Say it, please," Percy begs. He begs for no man, but he begs for this.

" _Filthy_ ," Fred spits, bending down so his saliva splashes against Percy's cheek. It is just a little, but Percy can feel it stinging like a slap, burning a hot trail down to his jaw. "Dirty. Weak."

There are so few things these days that give Percy reason for pride, but having Fred as a nephew is one of them. He knows exactly what Percy needs.

~*~

 **Wrath**  
Fred has never known his uncle. They share only a name and a common sense of wrath.

His dad often tells him, "That's just what my brother would have done" after Fred has done something mean to get back at someone. There are times he even goes too far and says, "You look just like him." He touches Fred with a tentative, reverent desire under his skin, like he is only grazing the surface of his need. Fred yields to him like a son should yield to his father, but he is merciless when he smirks with one side of his mouth raised higher than the other because he knows there was someone who did it just like that first. He mirrors his dead namesake to get what he wants, and it always works.

Especially on Percy.

Percy is perfect. He is wracked with guilt, blaming himself endlessly for things that are beyond his control. Percy thinks he controls everything—from the part of his hair to the cuff of his robes to how long he pisses when he is alone versus how long he does when he is not. Percy confesses like a sinner to the Muggle priest, chanting _Father, forgive me, for I have sinned_ like a litany, white fingers clutched along rosary-bead replicas in the shape of Fred's thighs.

But that is the wrong thing to say to someone who does not care and who is incapable of forgiveness. Fred knows that the kiss Percy shared with George was meant for the Fred that came before him, and he loathes this more than all Percy's endless excuses.

So he slaps Percy, and Percy keens, bends, and comes. All over the floor, like some sick dog who can't control himself.

In these moments, Percy lacks control. Fred does not wish to give it to him or even teach him the lessons nobody bothered to teach him—his only aim is wrath.

~*~

 **Envy**  
George watches Fred grow up. He starts out very differently than George would have imagined. As a child, he is small and scrawny, a loner with few friends, locked in his room for hours on end. As a teen, he looks at George like a small, caged animal ready to pounce.

For a time, George is afraid of his own son.

Then, Fred grows up, and the fear turns to envy. Fred no longer looks to George for the things he needs; instead, he dotes on Percy like some deranged fan. He asks Percy the most mundane questions, just to hear Percy count the reasons he is anal retentive. Fred says, "Tell me about your job at the Ministry," and Percy, ever willing to brag, falls over himself to puff up his pride. Percy is so weak, and Fred preys on this.

George knows it is wrong to be jealous of his son, to want what Percy has obviously stolen, but he cannot help the ache in his heart that pounds _I love you_ over and over until the meaning is skewed and perverted and ugly.

Watching Fred with Percy, George feels remorse for the loss of his brother and now of his son.

~*~

 **Gluttony**  
Percy knows many things. He is privy to so much knowledge, about things people wouldn't even want to know. For example, he knows the exact time each morning that the Minister arrives to work. He knows how many steps he can take before his shoes will need re-shining. And Percy knows it is wrong to bend over the kitchen table at his brother's house to allow his nephew to pry apart his cheeks and insert his dick to the hilt in one, solid thrust that sends Percy's skin crawling.

Percy is a glutton for nothing. He finishes all the food on his plate in a timely manner, but he eats small portions—he does not gorge himself like George and Ron or shovel it like Ginny or play with it and scoop it off the table anyway like Bill and Charlie. And where sex is concerned, Audrey knows only missionary where Percy is concerned—eyes up, legs spread, lips smiling. They have sex because they want children. They eat because they are hungry. They buy the things in life that are necessary, not those which are not.

Percy is a glutton for nothing…except whatever Fred gives deigns worthy of needing. Fred says Percy needs to bend over, so he does. Fred says Percy needs to scream his name and call him _sir_ , so he does. And Fred says Percy should lick his boots and finger himself and choke on Fred's dick and lick up his ass and stay still with his back arched and head down, so he does it all.

But the worst part (and the best) is that Percy does need these things. They have become desires unto themselves. To be kicked and bruised and fucked and bitten—he craves these things every waking moment, but no one but Fred will give it to him like he deserves.

Percy is a glutton for these moments, the times when Fred's body shudders inside him and Percy feels the release trickle down the backs of his thighs and stain his trousers. If he could live like this forever, Percy knows he would.

~*~

 **Sloth**  
Fred has so many talents, none of which he utilizes. His parents are wealthy, due to his mother's successful Quidditch career and his father's prosperous joke shop, and so Fred will never have to worry about anything, least of all working.

He puts his talents to greater use—he makes others do the work for him.

Some may call him lazy, but Fred just thinks he is gifted in the art of seduction and manipulation. He has no empathy for weakness, so he exploits it in those unfit to best the challenges he sets forth.

Percy is not the first, but he is the easiest. Percy has been waiting for someone like Fred. When Fred says, "Jump", Percy calculates how high, how far, and how long before he needs to ask. Percy bends to him like reeds bend to the wind: easily, effortlessly, silkily, sensually. Percy is looking for someone to hurt him, and Fred preys on this.

When George catches them with Percy tied to the headboard and Fred's fist buried in his ass, he does not scream, does not punch, does not react at all. Fred thinks his father looks beautiful with that numb disassociation on his face, pale and blue and so strong in his apathy. It is like George understands him. Fred wonders if his namesake felt the same, like there was one person in the world meant to understand one other person alone.

His father is his rock, his solace, his tether from the storm. It is the only reason Fred keeps his distance. After all, he has so much time for other things. For Percy. So George will have to wait or step to the challenge himself, something Fred is sure his father cannot or will not do.

~*~

 **Lust**  
George kneels at his brother's grave and apologizes endlessly to the sleeping ghost. He presses his palm to the cold headstone, calloused fingertips tracing warmth into the lifeless stone where it reads _Here lays Fred, beloved by everyone he knew_.

George tells him about his son. "He has your name," he begins, the day after Fred is born. "And your hair, but my freckles and insecurities."

When Fred is five, George tells his brother's ghost, "He acts just like you—he is merciless, and when he grins, I swear sometimes I don't think he knows how horrible it makes me feel."

Then Fred is growing up quickly, and George's confessions become macabre. He knows his brother trembles in his grave when George bows his head over the dirt and whispers, "I want to touch him so badly, and he wants to let me even more." He can feel his brother's anger ebbing out in waves from his marker, can feel the rumbling under the soil as he sinks his fingers in to touch some part of Fred that no longer exists. When he admits, "I touched him," finally on Fred's sixteenth birthday, George knows there are no reparations that could repay this to his twin. Fred will never forgive him.

"He looks just like you," George says, but he knows that is only to make himself feel better. Fred doesn't look like Fred, unless he is trying to get his way.

When George comes home to find Fred laid out naked on the dinner table, surrounded by half-eaten fruits, mouth-bitten breads, and drizzled sweets, the swell of lust is incomprehensible.

"I love you, George," Fred says.

He knows all of George's weaknesses, most of all this one.

~*~

** Greed **

_Percy_  
I crave beyond when I am full. Thick with his release, I collapse and beg and beg and beg for more. I am a sobbing mess when I return home to my wife and children, but I pull myself together with a force of a hailstorm and pray to all the gods above to protect my sanity.

I am ruined, I am greedy, I am spoilt, I am lost.

When I reach for Fred, it is not out of love or familial duty—it is a desire born from the grotesque. I want him to hurt me until there is nothing left of me to hurt.

He does. He is a good nephew. He makes me feel incomplete.

 _Fred_  
There is a new hunger where sex is concerned. It is all-consuming, whirlwinds from hell, blazing fires of wrath, and encompassing greed. I feel it itching the palms of my hands when Percy is near, worse when my father roams the midnight hallways in search of his brother's ghost.

The old Fred would have not been this way—he set limits, was a normal man with a healthy smile and a reason to get up out of bed in the morning. I am nothing like Fred. I am a monster that feeds on what other people leave behind, little trails of inconsistencies, imperfections, and sins.

I am a ravenous beast with two backs, a mask, and forked tongue to lap up the shame and guilt and humiliation and loss and hunger and nothingness they leave behind.

I will eat until I am a full, and then I will eat some more. My plate is never empty.

 _George_  
I had a brother once, who looked and felt and laughed and cried the same as me. We touched one another endlessly, like there was something crawling under our skin and only the touch of one another could free it. Our lips were mirrors, our skin was glass. My brother died, and something else came along that I am afraid of. He would have known when to dance and when to pause, but without him I am an imperfect replica, a lopsided replacement.

I crave the taste, the texture, the sight of the blood that runs through our bodies. Something familial, similar, a likeness of myself.

I wonder often, does that make me selfish? Narcissistic? To love what is like me.

But Fred is not. I watch him, and I know. It is easy to say now, _he is nothing like you_. It makes me feel better, soothes the itch, traps the bugs.

Though I am full and guilty, he remains, and so I eat well beyond what I can handle.


End file.
